


who said that every wish would be heard and answered?

by castcommune



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, i'll add more tags as i post more chapters, modern au: cemetery worker caduceus, vaguely
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-26 01:37:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20381551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castcommune/pseuds/castcommune
Summary: The Mighty Nein need help tending to their dead; Caduceus Clay wished for a sign from those up above. When want collides with need --- when heart collides with head --- what will come of this blessed, chance encounter? What, if anything, will blossom from the dead?





	who said that every wish would be heard and answered?

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i'm currently working on chapter two, so it won't be long before i update this thing! if you enjoy it, leave a comment down below and tell me your favorite part. may the wildmother bless you! x

Caduceus enjoyed routine, enjoyed the never-ending chore of living. He cleaned his wounds, bandaged the trauma and waited for loss to heal, only a scar to remain; most people didn’t like to acknowledge this war-torn terror, this fear of losing someone else, or a new opportunity or chance gone to waste, but Caduceus wasn’t like most people. Anyone who’s ever met him could tell you that; with a curious glint in their eyes, they would say, that boy isn’t right, that boy is strange. That boy, with his pink hair and straw hat and calm, too calm, demeanor — something’s wrong with him, and he supposes they are fair in that judgment. He himself often judges people by look or facade alone; it was in human nature to criticize, but it was also in human nature to expand, to grow, to improve upon the work of your ancestors by applying new knowledge, new techniques. People say that he is strange, they say that boy is disrespectful to the dead, that boy shouldn’t sully the ways of tradition by doing what he does. What he does is called natural burial, or eco-friendly burial, or green burial. Hole, shroud, dirt, rock. 

It’s simple, really. 

Blooming Grove Burial Sanctuary, home to flat grave markers, a designated ash-field, and a place to put dear mom or dear brother or dear cousin to rest — it had winding paths and neat benches and a grounds that expanded over land so wide, you couldn’t help but wonder how one man tends it all. Flowers bloom in spurts, trees with their winding limbs reaching across the sky overhead as if trying to join hands — Caduceus likes it here. Here, he can work, he can meditate, he can attack the day’s worries head on; he likes to do that, from time to time, surrounded by nature, wrapped in Her guiding light. The Wildmother, the patron saint that has led his family through generations, will care for anyone in need, himself included. He just needed to hear Her voice from time to time, that’s all.

Silence.

He trims edges of nearby greenery, shears with bouncing beams of light dancing from their tips; it’s a miracle no one’s been hurt with these yet, he thinks. Sharp objects don’t often bode well with people who have lost so much, who continue to lose more with each passing day — in his experience, they can be both a tool of grace and destruction, life and death, their edges just sharp enough to cut, just sharp enough to slice.

He knows this, because he’s experienced this.

Soft breeze, gentle wind. He hears birds chirping nearby, their song a symphony against his ears; he hears leaves rustling all around him, above and beside and behind him. It’s going to storm soon, he thinks. He can feel it in his bones, the way they ache with longing, the way his knees threaten to buckle with the knowledge of torrential downpours. 

He will make this quick.

_ I know they’re out there, somewhere_, he says, with the tone of someone who  _ doesn’t _ know, someone who  _ can’t _ know._ I know they are, because you are protecting them_, and he says this like a fantasy, some sort of far off belief he’s either too timid or too afraid to describe in much more detail. His necklace — a gift from a sister who has long since abandoned her post here at home — clinks around beneath his shirt as he moves, a trinket of chimes, a reminder of what once was. 

Most of what people say at funerals is a wish, a dream of a happiness that is now held just overhead. This isn’t a funeral, but it’s almost one. It’s almost mourning, if he could allow the sun to set. 

Raindrops sprinkle against the trees, the leaves rustling louder; the wind is picking up, and he wants to believe this is Her, this is his answer. This is a sign, somehow, that his family really is alive. They’re alive, and how ridiculous was he to believe otherwise? Even if only for a moment, even if in temporary doubt — how unnecessarily cynical was he, to cast doubt on Her decisions and choices? — but lo, he hears no verbal reply, no sudden warmth of a yes, no biting cold of no. 

Nothing.

With this, he begins to walk back to his home, slow steps guiding him back to a safe haven he isn’t even sure he deserves. The home is much too big for him now, bedrooms left empty, living space housing ghosts of the lively that once inhabited this place. As he begins his slow descent through the vast grounds, he hears a car door — distant, but loud all the same. It must be in the lot up front, he thinks, near the business side of the establishment; he stops, then he hears yelling. 

“Hey! Hey, you!” a female, gruff yet definite. “Do you work here?” 

“Excuse me!” another voice, shrill and piercing. He turns, curious, and finds a ragtag group of people all coming his way. Many women — two short, two a bit taller — and a few men — one, a redhead, and the other, with dark hair. This is odd, he thinks, but decides to approach, anyway. 

“I heard you,” he reassures them, brows knitted in confusion. There is a good bit of distance between them, but they are walking much faster than he is; the distance is closed rather quickly, and he notices one of the younger women — the one with short blue hair, messy from the wind’s sudden uproar — is on the verge of tears. He wants to comfort her, but opts against it; he sees the others move in closer, as if picking up on the same signal.

_ That’s nice_, he thinks, _they must be a family._

“Ja, we were looking for the owner of this establishment,” one of them — the redhead — speaks, and Caduceus only nods in response, giving them all a once over before responding.

“That’s me,” he says, extending a hand, slender and open, when someone — the man with dark hair and, from this distance, a few strands of white in the front — takes it, shaking it in the same way every grieving person does. Caduceus knows this, because he has seen this. He knows this from the countless families he has helped through the mourning process and, over time, from his own behaviors, as well. To grieve is to acknowledge a loss, and by giving it a name — whether it be Death, or Sorrow, or the name of your loved one — Clarabelle, or Colton, or Constance — you are telling them that it is alright.

This is the first step of moving on and, often times, the hardest.

They shake hands, and Caduceus offers this same smile, inviting and welcome to conversation, that he gives every family that plants roots in this burial sanctuary: as if to say _ I know what this is like, you are free to mourn here. Give it a name. _

“— Caduceus Clay,” he adds, smile accompanying the words as he looks to the group. “I take it you need our services?” 

The conversation, as it so happens, is brief, yet detailed — perhaps a bit too much so. They have a body, they explain, taking turns to pin on a detail, an homage, a corsage atop the metaphorical coffin. There is a body, and they are not from here, you see, and every funeral home they have been to has given them a price of thousands of dollars and oh, mister Clay, we are only looking to provide our friend with a proper burial. We are only trying to honor his memory, and he wants to ask, _oh, by lugging him around in your van? By driving him from place to place?_ He has seen many strange cases, but this is in a league all its own. He would have to commend them, though; few people have the comfort with death to deal with it in such a crude way. The group must have been through much worse, he thinks, but chooses not to focus on it — not yet, anyway. 

He says to them, _I can help you with a burial, but have you held a memorial? Have you cleaned and dressed and cared for the dead?_

_ _ Has the loss been given a name?

“His name is Molly,” one of the men — the taller one, white tuft of hair in a sea of black — says this, and Caduceus nods. Molly, he mumbles beneath his breath, tasting the word for what it was: vibrant, alive. Names never died, as his father so often told them; it was bodies that died. It was the flesh that rotted, but the name — Clarabelle, Colton, Constance, Molly — lives on. 

It tastes like honeydew with a hint of lavender.

It tastes like blood.

Caduceus offers his home — offers to clean and care for Molly, just as he would any other living or deceased being — but in exchange, he would like to hear their story. All too often, does a tale go silent at Death’s door, and these people seem like adventurers. They seem magical, if he could be so bold as to believe in the beauty of the unknown, the unexplained — he will help, but not for money. Only for time. 

“I can brew some tea,” he says, “—and I may have a few slices of pie left,” and at this, the shorter woman — splash of blue hair against light skin — seems to perk up a bit. He offers her a soft smile, the same sort he gave children when their distant relative has passed; it reads,  _ it will be okay, but this will happen again. Be ready for it next time. _

The red-headed man gestures for him to follow, and so he does. The group as a whole, crowded in a huddle as they walk, reminds Caduceus vaguely of his own clan of eccentricities. His sister, with dark eyes and curled hair and a determination so fierce it scares him sometimes — here, she took the form of a woman in blue, mumbling to the taller man as they walked. This man, he reminded Caduceus of his older brother — the one with an untethered devotion, who prayed standing upright for fear of an attack catching him off guard. 

Siblings would do that to you, you know.

They walk towards the parking lot, where a worn-down white van is parked in the corner. The ginger-haired man unlocks the back, sliding the door open to reveal a white sheet, blood dried on the front. Caduceus only stares at it for a moment, processing. The stain atop the sheet, big and dark and a seemingly endless expanse of red — it can only be caused by a few things. A particularly messy stab wound was an option, but Caduceus had a feeling it was even worse; a gunshot, point blank and straight into the center of Molly’s chest. 

_That must have been painful,_ he thinks. 

“So, uh, where do we need to put him?” the woman from before — gruff exterior, hair pulled up in a tight bun — looks him up and down, brow raised, arms crossed over her chest.

He was taking too long.

“Oh,” he says, looking back towards the business itself: a sleek, aged building that flaunted shrubbery in front of large, clear windows that looked into an almost open-floor plan. The sign out front —  _ Blooming Grove Burial Sanctuary _ — is partially obscured by a hedge at one end. The sign reads: _ -rove Burial Sanctuary _ . He will need to trim that soon, he thinks, before he looks back to the group and raises a hand as if to say, _I will be right back. I will not take long._

_ I am here to help. _

When he returns after a few moments’ time, he is dragging behind him a sort of wagon. A bit glorified, perhaps, with wildflowers and greenery lining the interior, bubbling up in weaves over the edges. He liked to call it what it was: a body transport wagon, but most people didn’t like that term. 

He can’t imagine why.

“We can use this,” he says, wheeling it towards the back of the opened van. When its edge touches the van itself, he stops, looks to the group; better to allow them to do it, he thinks, stepping back to give them more room. “—just help him onto that, and we can wheel it somewhere a little more private.” note the  _ help _ , note the  _ present tense _ . Never address the dead as if they are gone — not until the living have accepted the loss. Give the gaping hole in your heart a name, and only then can it heal.

Death is scar tissue; it is a memory.

The two men slide the shrouded corpse — that’s what it is, after all — onto the wagon with ease, and the redhead — Caleb, he learns — shuts the van door shut soon thereafter. Caduceus stands nearby, waits for the other man — Fjord, he hears one of them say — to give the okay to progress further. He seems to be the leader of the group, and Caduceus would hate to offend by thinking otherwise. 

“You’re sure this thing holds?” he — Fjord — asks, and Caduceus gives him a smile, warm and inviting and almost amused, if seen in the right kind of light. 

“It’s held worse,” he tells them, then moves to grab the handle of the wagon. He pulls slowly, wheels squeaking against the asphalt parking lot; it much more prefers the soft earth of the ground itself, and it is soon enough creaking its way through it — steadily, carefully. Caduceus knows this land, knows every little notch in the soil, every miniscule rise and fall. 

He knows this, because he has seen this. He has experienced it.

They trudge quietly for a few moments, wheels tumbling methodically through the grounds of the sanctuary, and Caduceus steals a glance soon enough; he sees the shorter of the women, a woman wearing a dark green jacket, golden baubles from her ears — she walks behind the wagon, watching the contents sharply. He wonders if she doubts his ability to transport a body safely, then decides to not confront it. The others walk around the wagon, with one of the men — Fjord, as he’s learned — and one of the women — tall, with ombré hair tumbling against rigid shoulders — walking at each of his sides. It almost feels like a funeral procession, if only they would allow the grief to settle; almost mourning, with the sun beginning to set on the horizon.

“We’re going to clean him right up,” Caduceus finally says, reassuring the doubt he’s sure has begun to fester. “—when we’re done with that, we’re going to make him look real nice. Then we’ll put him to rest.” and he says these words a lot, it’s true, but there’s something about this group that makes them feel different on his tongue. 

They taste like gunpowder and regret.

They taste like rebirth.

“We’re not taking him to the fancy building up front?” one of them — the sad girl with blue hair, he realizes — asks, and he shakes his head solemnly.

“My home is just fine,” he says, “—besides, you all look like you need to rest. I can brew some tea and help you to care for him.” 

“Help us?” the woman at his side, with dark hair that fades to a powdery white, asks, and he offers her a gentle smile.

“It’s going to be great,” and he means it, this time. This group seems to need rest — need safety and a guiding light — and although he can’t provide the latter too well, he can at least lead them down the right path.

It’s what he was meant for, after all. 

He asked for a sign, and this must be it, he thinks, just as the group approaches his quaint home on the edge of the sanctuary grounds. This must be his sign from the Wildmother, and if she wants him to help this ragtag collection of strangers, then so be it.

Let them be his charge, he thinks as he pulls the wagon towards the front door. Let him help them, and perhaps they can do the same in return. 

One could only hope, he supposed. One could only hope. 


End file.
